


A Sorceress's Choice

by DeaInTheMachina



Series: A Sorceress's Choice [1]
Category: The Witcher, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Griffin School (The Witcher), Sorceresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 22:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeaInTheMachina/pseuds/DeaInTheMachina
Summary: This was previously published on my blog at: https://thedeainthemachina.blogspot.com/2018/10/a-sorceresss-choice-witcher-fan-story.html.Disclaimer: I do not own anything within the Witcher franchise. That being said, these are my original characters and my plot set within the Witcher universe, therefore it's a fan story. Leshens are one of my favorite monsters in the Witcher series, and I wondered what might happen if a sorceress were somehow raised and trained in magic by a Leshen. This is the result of fiddling around with the idea.A word of warning, this contains mature content due to violence and some language. Just have to throw that out there.As always, thanks for reading.





	A Sorceress's Choice

“Lannan.” His summons rippled through the forest like a breeze. A raven-haired young woman appeared, wraith-like with pale skin and long limbs; she looked up at him with calm, silver eyes.

“Yes?” The tree-like creature looked down at his young ward, quietly observing her through the empty sockets of a deer skull that served as his head.

“Were you wandering the ruins again,” he finally asked in his strange, gravelly language. Annoyance flitted across her delicate features. “As I thought. What have you been able to learn from the dead this time?”

“Nothing.” Lannan loved, above all, to learn, and her Leshen-father had trained her extensively in the magic of his kind. Yet there was much he couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t, teach her.

“You’re a poor liar.” The towering figure tilted its head: he was glad she was bad at lying, it made her more like him, like the forest. “I do not want you using fire.”

“I know. We’ve been over this many times. _I know_. It’s dangerous.” She suppressed the urge to touch her cheek. “No fire” was his most strict rule, and he utterly refused to teach her the art. But it was hard to deter a curious creature such as herself, and she had stumbled on the ancient structure by accident many years ago. The wealth of knowledge she’d found in the buried library had at first been lost on her: she couldn’t read. That hadn’t prevented her from spending hours glaring at the strange language. Eventually, the symbols bowed to her determination and began to make sense. Though long gone, the dead had taught Lannan much, including how to conjure fire. “At least I know how to put one out.”

“You smother it with earth,” replied the Leshen. She rolled her eyes before letting out a short protest as he scooped her up. “Let us go; there is something disturbing our home.” The pale woman perched on his shoulder, raven hair trailing like vines over his bark skin. She was barely noticeable atop a creature that stood over nine feet tall. That was how they were, how they had been since her parents abandoned their infant to the “Phantom of the Woods,” terrified of her blossoming magic. The Leshen had been hesitant at first, unsure of what to do with a human baby, but the glimmers of magic intrigued him enough to experiment.

What happened when a human was raised on wild magic? Lannan happened. She grew into her power quickly and helped broaden his domain, until most of the surrounding villages were abandoned to the forest. Only a couple remained, quietly sharing cautionary tales of the creature, whom they called the “Phantom of the Woods.” The two of them disappeared in a shimmer of purplish-black mist and reappeared some distance away. A young man trampled through the late-summer forest, nervously clutching a hatchet in his hands as an unkindness of ravens followed his movements. “Humans,” muttered her father in irritation.

“Stupid trees.” The man’s blond head swiveled about before he settled on a young maple only a few inches thick. “I’ll show my village there’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s no,” he huffed as he swung, “such thing,” he huffed again, “as the ‘Phantom’.” Each word was emphasized with a swing, yet he made little progress cutting into the innocent tree. He yelped in pain when a sloppy stroke brought the blade biting into his shin. “Ploughin’ useless piece of—.” He fell silent at the sight of Lannan and her father as they detached from the foliage, moving into view.

“You should not have done that,” he said angrily, not that the human could understand his words. With a short gesture, the ancient creature summoned a series of roots, strangling the young man.

“Good riddance,” she said as she clambered down from her father’s shoulder to heal the tree. Lannan hazarded a glance at the body, which proved to be a scrawny teen. “Do you think anyone will come looking for him?”

“If they do, we will kill them, too.” One of the ravens hopped down when he held out his gnarled hand. “They know better than to come here.” She frowned as he melted back into the trees, leaving her to her own devices. Unconsciously, Lannan rubbed at a scar running along her right cheekbone; he had been exceptionally angry the day he’d struck her, and briefly forgot how fragile she was. “It’s your fault,” he shouted, “I told you never to use fire. But you would not listen.” The Leshen never struck her again, but he didn’t need to: she was afraid to disobey him a second time. She turned away from the sight of the boy and hoped no one else would come.

A few days after the incident, an unsettled feeling hung about the forest, and the afternoon heat prodded her to seek relief in a small pool near the ruins. Even the coolness of the water couldn’t chase away her misgivings, and she watched warily as the animals flitted around anxiously. Suddenly, a raven charged through the air, calling out in the Leshen’s voice. “Lannan! Lannan!”

“Father?” She focused her senses to locate him, trying to materialize nearby, but the distress emanating from him made it difficult. She finally managed to appear, just in time to watch as a man with short, dark hair made a quick gesture, summoning a gout of flame that poured over the creature. He followed up the blaze with a sword that glinted blindingly in the sunlight as he plunged it into the bark. The Leshen fell to the forest floor with a crash, joining the pile of wolves already slain, and did not stir to get up. Lannan edged forward hesitantly, face a mask of disbelief. “Father,” she called out. Dressed in blue-dyed leather and chainmail, the hunter looked up from cutting away the skull. A thin scar split his lower lip on the left before slicing neatly through the stubble on his chin.

“You lost, lady?” His yellow cat-eyes quickly took in her damp, disheveled appearance. The raven-haired figure was too thin and barely clothed, not very threatening, but his assessing came to a halt when he saw her tears. Unable to stand seeing a woman cry, he reached out a gloved hand. “You shouldn’t be out here alone; it’s dangerous.”

“Father,” Lannan whispered, shutting her eyes to the grizzly sight. At his touch, her eyes snapped open, leaving him briefly mesmerized by their silvery color. “Murderer,” she hissed in the tongue of the ancient elves. The rest of the pack gathered around the edges of the clearing, surrounding them. Above, ravens hopped and fluttered their wings, murmuring her accusation. “You’re a murderer. How could you do something so evil?!”

“Huh?” The Witcher looked to the bodies at his feet: he only saw a monster among wolves. “I don’t understand what you mean. The wolves attacked me, I was defending myself,” he replied in the same language, surprised she knew it.

“And him,” she yelled, pointing at the Leshen whose body slowly disintegrated. “What excuse do you have for killing him? I know he would not attack without cause.”

“How can you possibly know what it would do? It’s not human.” The monster-hunter’s mind raced as he tried to work out what was going on. The villagers mentioned nothing about a woman living in the forest.

“Of course, he’s not human; my father is better than that, wiser. He only ever punishes those who deserve it, like that little brat who came here to kill trees.”

“That ‘brat’ had a family that cared for him. He didn’t mean any real harm.” Something started trying to click in his mind. The woman in front of him appeared human, but his griffin-shaped medallion hadn’t stopped humming after the Leshen died. There was still magic at work, strong magic. “You called him ‘father’. Why?”

“Did you never have a father?”

“Not one that I can particularly recall, no. But creatures like Leshens don’t typically treat humans kindly, much less act as parental figures.” _None of this situation adds up_. The Witcher wondered if the villagers even knew about her; the contract only mentioned the “Phantom,” which he’d surmised was the Leshen. _But what if it’s more complicated?_

“Why are you here, Witcher? That is what you are, isn’t it? I read about your kind: mutated humans trained to hunt down and slay the creatures others fear. You’re so busy making the world a safer place for the petty humans that spend their days trying to kill each other.” Lannan’s silver eyes flicked over his body as she carefully stepped towards him over cooling corpses. “Did you never think you were making room for something worse?”

“I don’t get paid to ponder morality, lady.”

“So you do it for the—what do humans call it? Gold?” She pushed a few strands of dark hair from his eyes and laid a pale hand on his bristly cheek. “Should I pity your ignorance or your heartlessness?”

“Keep your pity, I’ve no use for it.” Something vibrated madly against his chest, but his head felt foggy as he gazed into her eyes. _So hypnotic._ “What are you?” _My, what lovely--_

“The daughter of the Leshen you murdered.” Too late he noticed the trap; that moment of complacent distraction was all the opportunity she needed. Roots rushed up from the ground and slammed him into a large tree, knocking the silver sword from his hand. Dazed, he let instincts and decades of practice guide his body as he dodged another root.

“A damned sorceress out here?” Ribs broken, the Witcher struggled to steady his breathing as he ran through the forest, putting space between them. Belatedly, he realized he’d dropped his best sword.

“Let him run,” Lannan told the wolves, as she plucked the blade from the ground to examine it. Through the eyes of the ravens and roots of the trees she followed him, turning the hunter of monsters into her prey. “Pursue,” she commanded once she was satisfied he’d gained enough distance to make it interesting, and the wolves leapt forward with happy, hungry snarls. The sorceress, for that was what the old books called her kind, appeared and reappeared like a phantom all around the dark-haired man, until at last he was cornered at the bottom of a sheer cliff.

“Dammit,” he cursed. With a few twitches of his fingers a shimmery gold barrier formed around his body. “Can’t believe I didn’t notice.” He pulled a steel sword from his back, one usually reserved for non-magical adversaries, and watched the woman materialize from the wood. “You’re the ‘Phantom,’ I take it. Are you also the one who killed the kid?”

“No, my father killed that foolish boy, but _we_ are—were— the ‘Phantom.’ I suppose it’s just me now.” Her gaze unfocused slightly, as if she were lost in thought. The Witcher tried to dart to his right but the wolves moved in and the opening disappeared. “You can’t escape.”

“This is what I get for wanting new boots,” he muttered. “It’s over, milady ‘Phantom.’ Your ‘father’ is dead: humanity wins this round.”

“This is _my_ home. Humans have no hold here.” Her pets shifted around in restless anticipation.

“Can’t you see you’re a human, too? That you’ve been used?” The Witcher growled in frustration. He couldn’t bring himself to strike her down, but he couldn’t get away without going through her. “Leave this place and come with me,” he shouted suddenly, an idea coming to him. “There are other sorceresses in the world, women who can teach you how to use your magic. You don’t need to stay here by yourself.”

“I don’t care about your human world or your teachers! And I am not alone: you may have cut him down, but my father will return.”

“Doesn’t it occur to you maybe that’s why he kept you? So he could use you as an anchor if anything happened?” It was obvious now: the Leshen had marked her, making it possible for him to regenerate as long as she remained in the area. “Makes sense; sorceresses live a long time once their power is fully matured.”

“You’re a liar! He would never use me like – like some human would.” She shook her head as if doing so would dispel the unwanted thought.

“You sure about that?” He noticed the scar on her cheek. “He do that to you?” 

“What?” Her hand went instinctively to her face.

“Did he. Do that. To you,” emphasized the dark-haired man.

“So what if he did? I deserved it for disobeying him.”

“Mhm. Sure you deserved it. How old were you?” He edged closer carefully, watching the wolves; the ravens, meanwhile, had subsided and leered down quietly.

“Seven, maybe,” Lannan replied uncertainly: she wasn’t sure how old she’d been, or how old she was now for that matter. Time had little meaning to her.

“What’s your name?” The Witcher wisely bit back what he really wanted to say: that he was happy he killed the Leshen.

“What does it matter?”

“Surely he named you.”

“Of course, but it doesn’t concern you.” The fury in her eyes returned, causing his medallion to vibrate violently against his chest.

“What’s the harm in telling me? Or are you afraid he’s going to reach out from his grave and hit you again?” _Oops, shouldn’t have said that last part._

“I am his chosen child,” she shrieked, “and I will listen to no more of your lies!” The wolves surged toward him and the monster-hunter prepared to defend himself. A few quick lashes from tree roots shattered his shimmering energy shield while snapping jaws pushed him back. He tried to summon another barrier, but more roots appeared, snaking themselves around his wrists, feet, and neck.

“He made you his pet,” the Witcher grunted. “That’s all you’ve ever been, but you don’t have to live that way anymore.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Is that doubt I hear in your voice?” There was a smooth whisper of metal sliding through flesh, grating slightly against bone, and the scent of damp earth. The dark-haired Witcher looked down, yellow eyes widening in surprise at the sight of his silver sword protruding from his chest. “Well, shit.” The world let go, and he tumbled down into darkness. When he woke, it was late into the night and no wolves remained, but a single raven watched curiously from above. The pain let him know he was alive. The Witcher turned his head stiffly to the side; from where he lay he could see the young woman outlined in moonlight. “I thought you killed me.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Thanks,” he said, grimacing in pain. “So. What’s your name?”

“Lannan,” she replied hesitantly.

“Nice to meet you, Lannan, I’m Merrick.” After an awkward silence he added, “Would it be too much to ask for some water? Or are you still debating if you want to kill me?” She let out a soft laugh, diffusing the tension by a few degrees, and passed him a water skin.


End file.
